


Them Bones, Them Dry Bones

by Moorishflower



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-14
Updated: 2010-06-14
Packaged: 2017-10-10 03:09:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/94811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moorishflower/pseuds/Moorishflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four Horsemen walk into a bar...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Them Bones, Them Dry Bones

  
"Roll the dice," War says, and Pestilence tilts his palm, the six dice spilling across laugh and life and love lines. Three things that none of them really have any use for. He spits into his empty palm, and then rubs them together. War makes a noise of protest.

"Rude," Famine chastises, and Pestilence tosses the dice to the table, the six cubes rattling and rolling and then coming to a stop. Four twos – Pestilence smoothes his paper against the table, neatly writing down his score: four hundred. In Central Africa, a man butchers a macaque to feed his family. The blood covers his hands, and seeps into cuts made from cracked calluses and harsh living. Within the week, several hundred people will have contracted the Ebolavirus.

Pestilence picks up the dice again, deftly cleans them with a handful of tissues from his pocket, and then passes them off to Famine.

Death watches them, but separate, refusing to play. There have only been a handful of instances in which his participation was required. This is not one of them.

Famine curls his fingers around the dice, dusty bones creaking. He is almost as old as Death, and after a moment War helps him, raising the ancient hand and positioning it over the table so that the dice can fall as they may.

"Damn," Famine murmurs: a single five. He painstakingly notes down 'fifty' on his own scorecard; a man at the bar orders another beer and guzzles it with unusual desperation. Death steeples his fingers, frowning, and then reaches across the table and carefully smudges the number. Minus one.

"Apologies," Famine sighs, and the _clink_ of a bottle being set down is accompanied by gasps for air.

"You don't shit where you eat," War offers sagely, and scoops the dice up from the table, rolling them in his palm.

"Maybe not _you_," Pestilence says, and they all wrinkle their noses.

A waitress passes by, replacing the empty basket of tortilla chips with a fresh one. Famine draws it close to himself, almost daring his brothers to try and move it back. No one objects, and after a moment he begins to ferry still-warm chips to his mouth.

The dice clack across the table. War picks up his pen and notes down two hundred on his card.

"Tribal wars," he muses. "No one ever learns."

"If humans ever _learned_ from their mistakes, we would be out of the job," Pestilence notes. The three younger Horsemen nod sagely; Death leans back as another waitress brings him his enchilada verdes.

The dice are passed back to Pestilence. He refrains from spitting on them, this time.

"You've misplaced your ring," he notes, nodding towards Death's empty finger. The other three turn to look, Famine squinting against cataracts, War actually swaying forwards, trying to get a better look.

"I gave it to the Winchesters," Death says absently, cutting into his enchilada. Good food is one of the things that he is willing to give humans credit for.

There is silence, around the table. Pestilence holds a tissue against his nose and sneezes, irritably. It sounds like a gunshot in the quiet restaurant, and a woman two tables over coughs into her cupped hands.

"But the Morningstar," Famine says quietly. War interrupts with a derisive snort.

"Fuck that guy," he says.

Pestilence rolls the dice. "We owe him. We wouldn't be sitting here rolling bones if it weren't for good old Satan."

"We wouldn't be chained to a spoiled brat," War counters. Death continues to eat his enchilada, ignoring them all. "Face it, we're Lucifer's one-trick ponies. What do you think he'll do when he's done throwing his little temper tantrum? He's gonna shove us back into bondage, that's what."

"You would know about bondage," Pestilence snickers. The dice are handed off to Famine again; he holds the cubes in one hand, a fistful of tortilla chips in the other. War leans back, crossing his arms.

"Protest is a _mild form_ of war," he insists. "'Freed the slaves' looks good on a resume."

"Not when it's immediately followed by 'orchestrated genocide in Uganda.'"

Death sets down his knife and fork. The _clink_ of the cutlery against his plate draws the attention of his brothers, who immediately stop bickering (as brothers are wont to do) and regard him with mingled respect and fear.

"Pass me the dice," Death murmurs, and accepts them from Famine's suddenly limp hand. "A storm is coming."

The wind picks up outside. Somewhere in America, Sam Winchester is about to say _yes_, and Death rolls the dice between his fingers, waiting, eternally patient.

It's a game he always wins.


End file.
